


the bird king

by theaspiringcynic



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Gen, Human Sacrifice, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Weddings as Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-17 14:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28726956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theaspiringcynic/pseuds/theaspiringcynic
Summary: She wears the king’s mark: twin scars, kelloided and dark on her back, the same place where her wings were plucked in another life.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 3





	1. The Bridal Procession I

She has always dreamt of the Bird King. 

Inky black feathers glimmering an emerald green in the stark sunlight. A curved beak, sharper than any sickle she’s seen used to harvest the grain. But the eyes, more human that she was comfortable with. A black so burdened it made her own soul feel heavy just by catching their gaze. She wears the king’s mark: twin scars kelloided and dark on her back, the same place where her wings were plucked in another life.

The dry heat smothers most feelings as the village parades her to the cliff’s edge where the Bird King’s image perches. A statue made of stone. An altar. A headstone. 

It has not rained in many days and she can feel her wedding dress grow slick and heavy with sweat. The kohl threatens to run into her eyes and it takes every fiber of her self control not to smear the paint on her face. Her tears do not fall but the wailing of the village people chills her heart and yet they dare not look away.

She does not jump so much as she merely walks off the edge of the cliff. For a brief moment, she _flies._ The feathers on her wedding gown gracefully flow in the breeze as she outstretches her arms as though any moment her wings would lift and take flight.

But no such wings appear and they watch—they all watch—as the bride plummets to the awaiting rocks below.

  
  
  


She wakes gasping, the effort of which wracks her entire body. She is cold, clammy no doubt due to the seawater that has soaked her dress. The feathers are completely waterlogged; the once bright crimson is now a deep mourning maroon. She is lying on the shore and the tide tickles her ankles. The sand is a glittering white, so bright that it hurts to look at. She sits up and instead chooses to look out into the horizon, her breath matching the ebb and flow of the tide. 

The sand glitters like sunlight on glass beneath her feet, beautiful and painful as the rocks cut her bare feet—her embroidered shoes long lost to the ocean’s greed. She leaves behind bloody footprints as she begins to wander away from the shore, the train of her heavily sequined wedding costume follows loyally behind her. She wants to peel off the soaked fabric (and perhaps some of her skin underneath) but she has no other clothing and the idea of walking around bare in her skin unsettles her far more than the fact that both the moon and sun sit up on the horizon, both unusually large and close.

The vegetation here is unlike any she’s ever seen before—the trees themselves do not belong here in such balmy weather—diverse in a way that is nearly impossible. Tall oaks intertwine between the flexible trunks of coconut palms. She is walking through multiple forests with every step she takes further into the island. 

The leaves are jewel toned; they remind her of sea glass as well as the way the light refracts off the ocean when she squints out to the horizon in the mornings. The leaves catch all the light from above, only leaving the faintest and dimmest beams of light to reach her feet.

Despite her soaked clothing, she does not feel a chill even as she sees the wind playing amongst the foliage. What unsettles her the most, however, is the absence of sound—there are no creatures visible to the eye. No chittering birds or the hum and drone of insects overhead. A forest empty of life. A quiet but lush tomb.

As she ventures further inward, she can no longer see the sun or moon. The lack of sound, however, still allows her to hear the familiar, comforting crash of the waves. The trees begin to thin out, emptying into a clearing in which a single gargantuan tree stood vigil.

  
  


The wind whispers to the trees, announcing her arrival.

The bride is here.


	2. The Bridal Procession II

Blood calls to blood.

Perhaps that can explain the ache she feels in her marrow as she tilts her head back to gaze up upon the bone-white tree. Decorated in emeralds, the sight of the tree is dazzling in the lowlights of the setting sun. The Bride wonders if she has in fact found her husband’s palace or perhaps the word  _ thone _ is more apt. She is unable to see the top of the tree and her neck begins to ache; no doubt because of the tall angle as well as the many ornaments adorning her crown.

She reaches out, eyes narrowing as the pads of her henna-painted fingers catch on the rough surface. Though its appearance looks more like smooth stone she can feel the ridges— _ cracks _ —in its surface. 

Her hands and feet are clumsy as she begins to climb. Her bridal costume catches on the trunk but she ignores the sound of ripping fabric. She focuses on the pain that erupts from her fingernails as she digs— _ claws _ —into the wood. The pain spreads and settles into her shoulders and back. Almost as though the weight of the sky has chosen to rest upon her head. Her progress is slow; every slip and misstep causes her heart to palpitate and yet she knows she must not stop— _ can _ not stop—until she reaches the apex.

Something far stronger than fear was calling out to her. Something far louder,  _ older _ even. 

Her hands are slick with sweat and blood; she allows herself a moment to lean against the tree and embrace it as though she were greeting long lost kin. The wood seems to creak in response, comforting and admonishing her in the same breath. Its voice is familiar too, much like how the women of the village clucked over her as they painted her ready for the ceremony. 

The rough bark catches and cuts her cheek; her blood is thick and sluggish as she feels it gently flow down her face. It’s a shallow cut, more annoying than painful. After a few more moments, she continues her journey.

Her breathing becomes easier as she ascends. She is becoming more accustomed to the pain as well, it now accompanies her rather than hinders her. A companion that shares her breath rather than one that steals it away.

The Bride gazes out towards the horizon, her eyes catching the moment when the sun finally bid the moon goodnight, leaving the sky and stars stripped bare.

The branches thicken the higher she climbs. While it is easier to gain a footing, she notices how the bark of the tree is darker—the cracks deeper—almost as though it were stained of something. There are notable patches where nothing grows much to her surprise. Almost as though whole sections were scorched off from intense heat.  _ What horrors has this tree witnessed? _

Her fingers nearly miss their anchoring as she muses and for a moment, she nearly believes she will not make it. She can see her fall in her mind’s eye. The dark makes her unable to see how far she is from the bottom but she knows instinctively that she would not survive this fall. Not like last time.

The branches weave amongst themselves into a makeshift platform. Her footing is now stable though the platform’s narrow edge still beckons and taunts. Her legs tremble and finally give out as she lies upon it, attempting to slow down the rapid pacing of her heart. The air is thinner up here, more fit for clouds and birds than for abandoned brides.

She lies prone on her belly, eyes looking out past the edge of the horizon. Her back stings fiercely as though it were torn to shred alongside with her wedding costume. The fabric is unrecognizable from the crimson of the morning but it suits the dark velvet of the night.

She can no longer see the henna on her hands, both in part due to the lack of light but also to the wounds on her fingers. Despite this, she lies calmly. She does not feel cold here—the breeze is almost welcoming, it greets her as a beloved child. It gently rustles the hem of her skirt, both cooing and nagging as it brushes down the wisps of her hair.

She allows herself to rest here under the watchful gaze of the moon as she waits.

Her wedding night has just begun.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	3. The Wedding Night

The itching starts slowly. 

A slow creep just underneath her skin, teasing as though preparing itself for the hours that are to come. They had told her that a wedding night for a bride is painful but she did not expect the way her skin shreds so easily underneath her fingernails. How  _ quickly _ she’s able to coax several layers off, as though she were shedding a chemise. 

Maybe the moon light’s has made her mad perhaps that’s why she’s so eager to shed this skin of hers. This unsightly, unsettling—too  _ tight _ for her breathing—skin. She leaves pockmarked wounds behind, letting them bathe and breathe in the moonlight. The pain does not diminish but she feels something else just beneath the surface as though something is wanting to burst out of the meat of her flesh.

She does not scream, wanting to rather bite her tongue and bear the pain as she was once taught but it becomes unbearable. The pain sinks lower into her bones, wrecking havoc as it shatters bones and nerves alike. Her yell is hoarse and terrifying. But, ultimately, it is a plea that goes unanswered as most made in a tomb do.

Her consciousness swells and ebbs; at its peak she swears that even her soul is being torn anew—that nothing of what she was before will remain after the night has ended—to make way for something else.

The wind stays silent through her pain. Its comfort long gone and the air is uncomfortably still. Almost as though the world was holding its breath as it waited for her to  **become** . Although  _ what _ exactly she was turning into was frighteningly unclear. Something about it felt right, however, felt as though she was finally getting to the  _ end _ of something and starting something new.

The night is long.

  
  
  


When she wakes for the last time, it feels as though her ribs are cracking open. Her breathing is heavy, labored. As though her body has suddenly strained from the weight of the world resting upon her head. 

The sky is still dark when she opens her eyes but somehow she knows the sun is slowly beginning to wake. 

Her skin is gone—she discovers that fact as the wind worriedly smooths over the new downy feathers that have replaced it. If she had any skin left she’d say it was crawling. Her horror is muted; her throat too painful to actually unleash any sound of anguish or grief.

Her hand—though whether she can actually call it as such is doubtful considering it more closely resembles a claw than anything else—trembles as she reaches out to touch the golden feathers. They’re a bronze gold, she notes numbly, much like the color of new pots after they’ve been left to cool off fresh from the forge. She knows, instinctually, that the feathers are sharp despite their downy appearance. She can still hazily remember the way it felt when they pierced through the remnants of her own skin during the night.

Her body itself feels light even as she pulls herself up from her prone position on the branch. 

Her bones have become lighter as though she is no longer a being of flesh and blood but rather a vessel for the air itself. Her mouth is tight and her nose curved and hooked. Her feet have turned into claws—talons—and she can feel them dig into the wood underneath.

She watches the sun rise in a daze. The morning light sets alight a crown just above her head.

Her eyes have changed too, for some reason, gazing at the sun directly no longer makes her uneasy. She faces it directly as though recognizing it for the first time. She spreads her arms, now elongated and thickened. Feels the way the wind kisses her face—half in sorrow and half in joy. Hears the way it now shouts to her, unrestricted and uninhibited.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


She lets herself fall for the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditions have a way of distorting as the centuries pass on unless strict measures are taken especially when concerning oral histories. A vessel becomes a sacrifice which becomes a bride dressed for her 'husband'. I wanted a different ending for the unnamed bride and a different outcome for all those who came before her.


End file.
